


Lead and Follow

by ladyblahblah



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand.  This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Abuse of science, badly contrived and completely unrealistic situation.  No, seriously. This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of _A Lesson In Deduction_ , though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous.  The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed.  They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended.  I'm sorry, boys!  I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.

 

Milestones in history, paradigm shifts: they affect us so profoundly that it is easy to forget that they all occur on what would otherwise remain a normal, unremarkable day. Such was certainly the case for me when, on a rainy but temperate spring day in the late nineties, my world was irrevocably changed.

I find myself masking the exact date more out of habit than the hope that I may spare any amount of grief by withholding certain details. In truth, I should not be recording these events at all. Years ago, however, long before his miraculous return, I swore a vow to keep a detailed and thorough record of my dealings with Sherlock Holmes; to omit this relation from my accounts is as unthinkable to me as its publication. It will remain safely tucked away, for my eyes alone, to be shared only with my good friend should he ever profess an interest in what I have written.

As I have said, it had been for the most part quite a pleasant spring, and a welcome change from the bitter winter that had preceded it. Despite the excellent weather, however, Holmes had been shut away in his room for days. The few times that I dared to look in on him, thinking to entice him with a bite to eat, I saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, puffing away on his pipe and staring abstractedly into space. Even addressing him directly could not rouse him from his state of contemplation, and eventually I gave up the attempt.

It was useless trying to pull Holmes out of his thoughts at times like these, as I had learned long ago over those first few years of our cohabitation. It seemed that he had not had cause to change in the time that we had been apart. I felt grateful that he seemed at least to have eschewed the comforts of his morocco case in this instance, and that he had taken to smoking in his room so that the buildup of toxic fumes might bother me less. Still, I worried over him, confined to that room for so long with such a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke built up around him. I would gladly have opened his window to let in some fresh air, but a steady rain had begun to fall that afternoon and I did not wish to expose him to the elements when he had apparently had neither food nor sleep for the past two days.

I was just sitting down to supper, and thinking of trying once more to rouse him at least enough to eat a bite or two, when I heard his door open. I looked over to see the man himself half-stumble out of his room, his legs likely weak from lack of use. His eyes lit on my humble spread and his nostrils flared; I felt heartened to see him visibly taking in, and enjoying, the strong scent of roast beef and gravy that drifted through the air. He ran a hand over his haggard face and made his way to the bell pull while I could only stare in astonishment.

When the maid answered his summons he entreated her to have Mrs. Hudson prepare a share of the food for him as well, with instructions to simply leave it on the table for him if he had not returned by the time of its arrival. That done, he turned and reentered his room without saying so much as a word to me, closing the door behind him once more.

Out of combined manners and painful curiosity, I decided to postpone my own meal until he joined me. I picked up my copy of the evening _Times_ and began to peruse it, though it was normally my habit to leave it until after I ate. I could hear Holmes moving about and the occasional sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom.

His food arrived and was laid out as he had instructed; shortly afterwards he emerged again, his clothes exchanged for fresh ones and his person no longer reeking of stale tobacco smoke. Instead the faint scent of his cologne tickled my nose, and I shifted uncomfortably. Oblivious, as he so often was in regards to me, he seated himself and began to apply himself to his meal like a ravenous wolf. Setting aside my paper I followed his example, though with, I hope, a bit more decorum.

Holmes was utterly absorbed in the task of eating, and I took the opportunity to study him covertly. Doing so was one of my favorite—though guiltiest—pastimes. My eyes were drawn to his form, to his catlike grace, as a lodestone is drawn to the north. Unfortunately my studies were all necessarily short-lived, as my combined fear of being caught out and my body’s dramatic response to the sight of him made it impossible for me to observe him with tranquility for any great amount of time.

It had been many years since my first unsettling dream of Holmes, the details of which I have also recorded within these same pages. I had never acted on my feelings for my old friend in that time, though I remained unable to control the dreams and fantasies that had begun to plague me. Even after I had wed my Mary, much as I loved her I could not cease imagining the arms of the man sitting now before me, could not stop my fevered brain from conjuring images of the two of us locked together in a wicked embrace. To my profound shame it was almost a relief to me when she died, taking with her the guilt that had hounded me as if I had been unfaithful in deed as well as in thought. For even Holmes’s supposed death had not cooled my perverse desires; I dreamed nightly of his returning, miraculously alive, to take me in his arms and make me his at last.

Of course, when he _did_ reappear, miraculously alive in fact and not merely in my dreams, it was with perfect nonchalance and the assumption that his sudden reappearance would not send his old partner into a swooning shock. There was nothing romantic about his return, nothing to suggest that he had grieved my loss over the past three years as I had grieved for him.

Such indifference, such selfishness should have cured me of my feelings; it shames me to say it did no such thing. Even now, having been willfully deprived of his company for the past two days, I desired him with a fierceness that would have been frightening had there been a hope of it ever coming to fruition.

My thoughts were interrupted as Holmes finally sat back with a contented sigh, looking as sated as if he had just finished a five-course meal instead of Mrs. Hudson’s simple fare. I shook my head.

“You don’t eat enough to sustain a flea, Holmes,” I said, pushing away my own empty plate. “It’s a miracle of science that you manage to possess yourself of such energy on so little fuel.”

Holmes simply looked at me for a moment before he burst out laughing. I have said before that Holmes’s laughter usually signifies an unfortunate fate for some poor soul. At the time, unfortunately, I did not make a connection between that laugh and the danger in which I was shortly to find myself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, noting my offended look. “But you truly are a singular joy as a friend, Watson. It is all over your face that you are desperate to know what has had me holed up for so long. You do not wish for it to appear as though you might be prying, however, so instead of asking about it you lecture me about my health, though you know I never listen to your well-meant advice.”

I sat back, hardly mollified. “You might be a bit more charitable to someone who only has your best interests  
at heart.”

“Oh, I know it, Watson. In fact, I’m counting on it, for I find that I have been beset by a singular problem, one that I have no hope of solving without your assistance. It is that which has had me dwelling in my own thoughts for so long. I shall explain all,” he said, forestalling the inquiries I was about to make, “later, after the dishes have been cleared away. It is something of a delicate matter, and I would prefer that we remain uninterrupted.”

Soon enough the maid returned to retrieve the remains of our meal, though to me the interval seemed unbearably long. I was desperate to know what problem had so stymied the great Sherlock Holmes that he had to turn to me for aid. For his part he seemed completely at his ease, and had even picked up my discarded newspaper to skim through his beloved agony columns.

When at last we were alone again he set aside the paper, poured us both a brandy and asked that I close the curtains. I readily obliged him, assuming that his request must have sprung from the aforementioned delicacy of the situation. We settled into our chairs, I on the edge of mine and Holmes lounging at his ease.

“Well?” I prompted. “What is the problem that has vexed you so, and how may I be of assistance?”

Holmes chuckled. “I’m afraid it is not nearly as exciting as your keen interest deserves. I have merely come to the point where I must reevaluate something that I had long considered as an incontrovertible truth. Now I find I must concede the possibility—nay, the _likelihood_ —that my presumptions were incorrect.”

“Whatever can you be talking about, Holmes?”

“I have never been . . . good with emotions,” he said awkwardly. “I do not know how to express them; indeed, I have long doubted that I am even possessed of the full range of what would commonly be described as human feeling. It is a failing of mine; perhaps my chief failing, for without ever having truly felt those forces that drive people, how could I hope to truly understand them? I might well be able to comprehend on an intellectual level; but as I’m sure you know, human beings rarely act in a wholly logical and intellectual manner.

“I can not condone the triumph of emotion over reason. However, I found in my travels, without my trusted friend and companion at my side, that I must admit to the importance that human feeling all too often has in the hearts and minds of the criminal element. Alone, I found myself often at a loss, stymied by those seemingly insignificant details which you so often reflected for me.”

I was, I confess, at something of a loss myself. It was highly unusual for Holmes to refer to his adventures abroad, a technique intended, I suspect, to keep me from quizzing him on the subject. He had certainly never gone so far before as to suggest that he might, even in so small away, have regretted my absence. Holmes took no notice of my astonishment, but continued his speech as though nothing he had said was in any way unusual.

“And what emotion, Watson” he asked, bright eyes fixed on mine, “lies at the root of almost every crime that we have investigated together? Do you know?”

I shook my head to say that I did not.

“Desire!” he ejaculated, springing to his feet in a fit of energy. “That is to say, not merely a generalized greed for anything one finds appealing, but base, physical desire; the basic biological need to mate. It is one of the driving forces of the human race, but upon reflection I was forced to admit that I had never felt it. Why should people commit such vile crimes—lie, cheat, steal, even kill—for such a thing? It baffles me. Yet I have witnessed first-hand that such behavior is not at all uncommon.”

“All right,” I said slowly. “But what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I’m getting there,” Holmes said, shoving an agitated hand through his hair as he began to pace. “I thought, for most of my life, that I was beyond such desire. I have never hungered for a woman’s flesh as other men have; I have never felt my heart speed at the touch of a female hand, nor dwelt on the taste of soft lips. I believed that I simply existed outside of the bounds of physical need. I often felt no need for sleep or for food; why not then the remaining biological imperative?

“This recent scandal in the courts has got me thinking, however. Is it possible, I am forced to ask, that my indifference to the female form springs not from a disdain of the act of copulation itself, but rather from a preference for an alternative that I have never explored? I have found that thinking of such an alternative has produced some . . . ah . . .” he cleared his throat, glancing away from me, “noticeable results. And this is where your assistance becomes crucial.” He sat once again in his chair, leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye. “You see, Watson, I must ask you to take me to bed.”

I’m afraid that I merely sat there for quite a while, unable to do anything more than blink stupidly at my friend. I was vaguely aware of his calling my name more than once, but the sound barely registered. My mind was consumed. Could it be that he had discovered my feelings at last? Could he be mocking me? That did not seem like Holmes, but I was at a loss to explain it any other way.

His hand on my knee finally brought me back to myself. I jerked away and raised my glass to down my brandy in one gulp, feeling slightly more grounded by the burn it created in my stomach. When I turned back to Holmes he was still looking at me, his brow creased in mild concern.

“Watson?”

“It’s all right, Holmes,” I managed in a rough voice. “We can just . . . forget about this entire thing. You needn’t worry that I’ll ever bring it up again.”

He frowned. “Is that a ‘no’, then?”

“Holmes! What on earth can you be thinking? It’s beyond words, saying such a thing as calmly as you please!”

“Should I have stammered and blushed and prevaricated? I prefer to be direct in my dealings. I see no reason to beat around the bush.”

“You—I—” I couldn’t manage more than an indignant sputter. I took a deep breath and tried a different approach. “If I were a woman, would you have propositioned me in such a way?”

“If you were a woman,” he said reasonably, “I would not have propositioned you at all.”

“It’s illegal!”

He chuckled. “Yes, it is. But breaking this particular law holds less danger for us—and others—than, say, illegally entering someone’s home, which we have done on more than one occasion.” I could feel myself pale at these words, so closely mirroring those of that first fevered dream, and for a moment I prayed that I was merely asleep again, suffering the torments of my subconscious. “I see no reason now, nor have I ever, not to flout an unjust law. You are my friend of old, Watson; you should be used to my idiosyncrasies by now.”

“And do you suggest such things to all of your friends?” I asked coldly.

His eyes narrowed. “It does not become your personality, Watson, to make such a spiteful attack. Who else should I ask, if not a friend? I have no desire to risk disease by visiting a rent boy for this experiment, and with the entire Empire currently buzzing about this blasted trial there’s no guarantee of safety and anonymity even with a stranger of my own station.” His expression softened. “I asked you, Watson, because I trust you. I know that you would not betray me, even if you should be repulsed by my request.”</p>

I shot to my feet, moving to pace as he had only moments before. “Holmes,” I said in a strangled voice, “do not ask this of me. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, do not ask it.”  
  
“Why?” he demanded, rising to face me. “You are not completely averse to the idea; that much is clear.”  
  
“Is it? And which ink stain on my jacket or spot of mud on my shoes led you to that conclusion?”  
  
Despite my bitter words he chuckled again. “There was no need to resort to such minutia. Despite your protestations, after criticizing my approach the first true objection you raised was the legality of the act. Had you been entirely disinterested you would simply have said that you could not bring yourself to be intimate with a man. Even without such paltry deductions, however, the evidence is . . . quite clear.”  
  
His eyes drifted down to the front of my trousers, and to my embarrassment it was only then that I noticed the full state of my arousal. His casual words, I realized, had sparked a barrage of imaginings, and I had hardened almost immediately upon his suggestion. My body, traitor that it was, had heartily accepted Holmes’s proposal even if my mind and heart had not.  
  
“You can’t just . . . it wouldn’t be an accurate test,” I said desperately, trying to appeal to his scientific mind. “It’s about physical attraction, not simply jumping upon the first person who happens to be convenient.”  
  
“I don’t see that that disqualifies you,” he answered. “You’re quite a good-looking man, doctor, though I can not yet say with certainty if I find you sexually attractive. You are also distinctly masculine; I think that the greater that distinction the better for the purposes of this test. It seems to me a reasonable hypothesis that if I am not attracted to the female form, a manlier physique may entice me. This is only a theory, of course. But I do think that I should not dislike finding out for certain.”  
  
Holmes stepped closer, and my head filled with the scent of his cologne. “In any case, it may not be necessary to go as far as you fear. A simple kiss should give me an accurate idea of how appealing I might find you, and we might very well be able to end our inquiries there.” As I stood there, frozen, he cupped my jaw in his hand. “Surely you would not begrudge me one kiss in the name of scientific discovery, old friend?”  
  
I could not move, could not so much as blink as his mouth descended upon mine. His eyes remained open, as well, as our lips met. It was nothing more than a soft rub and press at first as he investigated the shape of me. My moustache brushed against the soft skin of his upper lip and I saw him give a tiny shiver at the sensation. His tongue darted out to flit briefly over my bottom lip before he pulled back, his eyes gone slightly hazy.  
  
“Yes,” he said huskily, “I believe I liked that very much indeed. I think I might like it more, however, if you kissed me back.”  
  
I was lost, and had been since the instant that his lips met mine; or, if I were truly honest with myself, from the moment he had so bluntly propositioned me. This would likely be my only chance to have Holmes’s body at my disposal, I reasoned. I would be a fool if I did not jump at the opportunity.  
  
I crushed my mouth to his with more violence than I had intended, though his moan seemed to indicate that he did not mind. His arms locked around me as if to keep me from breaking away should I suddenly change my mind. There was no danger of that. I had finally got a taste of him, and I would not be satisfied now until I had gorged myself.  
  
We stumbled to his bedroom like a pair of drunkards, unwilling to release each other long enough to open the door. I pinned Holmes against it and set my teeth and tongue to work on his ear, producing a gratifying series of startled gasps and moans. His hand groped for the doorknob and finally managed to wrench it open, nearly sending us tumbling to the floor.  
  
The stale smoke that still hung in a cloud around his room sobered us somewhat, and by mutual consent we made our way to my room instead. Once there I closed and locked the door behind us, turning around to find Holmes watching me with clear desire.  
  
“Astounding,” he murmured, stepping forward and reaching up to slip my jacket from my shoulders. “Even after . . . I never thought to feel anything this strongly.” His clever fingers went to work on my collar. “Like a fire inside of me, but not at all unpleasant.” My cuffs joined my collar and my jacket. “Will you kiss me again? I find that I quite enjoy it.”  
  
I eagerly complied, working at the same time to undress Holmes as well, a task made more difficult by the way his kisses blanked out my mind. I had no idea where the man had learned to kiss so well, and if I had possessed more of my faculties I may very well have been unfairly jealous. All of my meager thoughts, however, were focused on the task of stripping him to the skin so that I might at last feel that long, sinewy body pressed up against mine.  
  
While my hands tugged his shirttails out of his trousers, my mouth set to work discovering the glory that was his long, slender neck. I found a spot beneath his ear that made him buck and cry wildly in my arms. The prospect of a Holmes for once out of control was unbelievably erotic, and I lavished attention on the spot until I had formed a small purple mark there.  
  
No matter how many times I see evidence of it, I am always continually surprised by Holmes’s strength, perhaps because it is only ever displayed in unexpected moments. This was no exception, as I found myself suddenly shoved forcefully back onto the bed. The rest of my clothing was swiftly discarded and Holmes all but pounced on me, our naked flesh meeting at last.  
  
I confess that the sensation caused me to go a bit wild. For several minutes Holmes and I wrestled, both of us fighting for dominance. I had an unfair advantage, however, in my greater experience, and even my own late wife’s example in the bedroom for guidance. I reached down between his legs to skim a finger lightly over the soft skin behind his testes. He shuddered and moaned in response, and his reaction gave me the chance to reverse our positions until I was on top of him, pressing him into the gentle yield of the mattress.  
  
I had to taste him; I thought that I might go mad if I did not. My hands skimmed over his chest, down to his stomach and beyond to grasp his swollen shaft already weeping for attention. I slithered down and exhaled a warm breath over him. I glanced up to see him still at last, watching me closely. With my eyes on his, I slowly lowered my head.  
  
The first feeling of his rigid organ against my tongue was intoxicating. I moaned and ran my tongue up the underside of his shaft from base to tip, pausing to swirl around the leaking head. His breathing had grown ragged, and I saw that his hands had fisted in the sheets. He tasted splendid, but I wanted more than just his taste; I craved the feel of him in my mouth. When I closed around him his head fell back and a long, guttural groan escaped him.  
  
Thrilled at his response I continued to move, letting my moustache brush against his abdomen each time I lowered my head. After several attempts I was eventually able to take him into my throat, and I found his look of almost pained ecstasy well worth the trouble. Finally I felt him begin to shake and his spine grow rigid; I swallowed him as deeply as I could as he pulsed out his release, drinking down all that spilled from the magnificent creature beneath me.  
  
A normal man—at least, if I may be considered normal—generally has his energies and faculties drained after such an experience. However, as Holmes was extraordinary in so many other respects, I suppose I should not have been too surprised to discover that his stamina in bed was equally astounding. Only moments after he had spent himself I found myself trapped beneath him, his hot mouth trailing mind-numbingly over my body.  
  
“That really was a most astonishing experience, Watson,” he murmured in my ear between kisses. “I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to return the favor.”  
  
He did not wait for a response, but slid down my body like quicksilver. I expected him to simply imitate what I had done to him; instead, he spent long moments studying me until I began to shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze.  
  
“This is returning the favor, Holmes?” I asked dryly.  
  
He smirked up at me. “You can not be surprised, my dear doctor, that my natural curiosity extends to matters of the bedroom. And as always, I find that it is beneficial to first take a quick visual summary. Now that I have done so . . .”  
  
His tongue began to trail, with excruciating slowness and softness, up my length. I began to tremble at the sensation, that ghost of a touch so light as to hardly be substantial at all. A sound perilously close to a whine slipped from my throat, and I fought for control. My hips shifted restlessly towards him; in response he merely moved one arm to hold them down while his other hand slid up to cradle and stroke my testes. The world was spinning, and I found myself helpless to stop it. He had slipped my foreskin back and was exploring the head of my shaft with maddening thoroughness when the tip of his tongue pressed against a spot under the tip of my prick, and stars erupted in my field of vision.  
  
“Holmes,” I cried.  
  
The glorious sensations stopped but for his hand still caressing me. I forced open my eyes and saw that he had raised his head and was looking at me with an odd mix of curiosity and lust.  
  
“That,” he said slowly, “was most intriguing.” His eyes were hot, belying his lazy words. “I never imagined I might hear my name screamed in such a fashion.” He lowered his head, and I only just heard him say, “Do it again.”  
  
His tongue pressed against that spot once more, and again my vision swam. “Holmes,” I moaned.  
  
He made a sound like an approving purr. “Not quite a scream, but I like that, too.” Without further comment, he took me in his mouth.  
  
The rest remains a sea of blind sensation, one touch or caress indistinguishable from the next. Holmes’s mouth on me was a pleasure greater than any I had ever known, and as much as I craved the sweet way I knew it would end I was loath to have such glorious feelings cease. Finally, however, I could hold out no longer. My climax hit me like a tidal wave, leaving me feeling dazed and empty. I was vaguely aware that Holmes had pulled away after I had finished, and I assumed that he was leaving for his own room. I was disappointed, I admit, but not surprised, when I heard him searching under the bed—some of his clothing, I thought, must have been kicked there in our passion.  
  
I was, as is usual when I try to second-guess Holmes’s motives, mistaken.  
  
My eyes shot open as his elegant fingers, coated in something slick, probed gently at my entrance. He was staring down at me, his eyes intense.  
  
“I must say, there are distinct advantages to engaging in such acts with a man who keeps his medical bag beneath the bed.” He lowered his head to feather a kiss over my temple. “I have gathered a great deal of theoretical knowledge over the course of my investigation, Watson, but in practical matters I remain something of a novice; there is still much more for me to learn about this desire of mine. I shall promise to be gentle, however, and to make it as pleasurable for you as possible.”  
  
So saying he slipped one long finger inside of me, sending shudders wracking down my spine. The feeling was surpassingly odd, his single, slender digit stroking the walls of my tight channel. However, when the tip of his finger brushed against the gland buried deep inside of me the sensation swiftly changed from odd to euphoric. It seemed as though my entire being was focused on that one blissful feeling, and on Holmes’s finger moving slowly within me.  
  
A second finger joined the first and my eyes drifted closed. Even without the added stimulation when Holmes chanced to brush against that glorious spot, I realized that I was gaining pleasure simply from his touch. To be filled in this way was thrilling; the slide of his fingers in that most intimate place was indescribably erotic, and I could feel the response of my own eager flesh swelling once more.  
  
His hand was twisting, those exquisitely elegant digits scissoring gently as he stretched me. I had enough knowledge of such encounters, gleaned from army barracks and medical conferences, to know what was in store for me next. Far from being apprehensive, however, as I might have thought I would be, I experienced only a breathless anticipation. Indeed, the thought of being possessed so completely by my suddenly passionate partner only made my desire grow. Soon I was writhing beneath his touch, desperate for more but uncertain how to ask.  
  
Luckily, Holmes seemed as intuitive as always, and as adept at reading my unvoiced thoughts. He leaned down and kissed me as his fingers withdrew from my body. Moments later he took hold of my right hand and deposited a dollop of lotion onto my fingers before guiding them to his stiffened member. Taking his cue, I began to caress his swollen flesh, slicking the lotion over the length of his shaft. He broke our kiss with a groan, his eyes squeezed closed, and his breathing became erratic.  
  
I confess I took a certain perverse pleasure in the knowledge that with a few simple touches I could push this extraordinary man to the very limits of his control.  
  
I had not long to revel in my discovery, however; Holmes gently (and, it seemed to me, reluctantly) pulled my hand away from him and eased my legs apart to position himself at my entrance. I took a deep breath and tried to relax, knowing it would make his passage easier. Even so, when he pushed forward I had to bite my lip to hold back a cry. He felt so incredibly full inside of me, stretching me to the point of pain even with his careful preparation. I knew that he could not have progressed more than an inch, yet I felt certain that he could go no farther. I did not think that I could take any further invasion.  
  
I was, again, mistaken. Holmes continued his slow, insistent movement, careful to give me time to adjust to his presence within me. My breathing was harsh in my own ears. I had closed my eyes, but opened them now to see him gazing down at me, question clear in his eyes. I shook my head mutely. There was discomfort, true, but having him sheathed inside me like this was glorious. I did not wish for him to stop. Fearful that there were too many emotions on my face for him to readily discern the one I most wanted to convey, I opted for a surer method of indicating my cooperation. I lifted my hips towards him, letting him slide that much deeper into me.  
  
His eyes widened at the sensation, and I noted with a kind of fierce glee that his body was trembling. When he began to slowly withdraw, however, I feared that I had done something to hurt or displease him. I needn’t have worried; a moment later he pushed forward again, his movements gentle but undeniably certain.  
  
It was not the same as that first penetration, when a part of me had wanted desperately to expel him again even as the rest of me had delighted in the bliss of joining. Now I had grown more accustomed to his presence, and the friction created between us by that smooth thrust thrilled nerve endings of whose existence I had been previously unaware. My back arched, my eyes widened, my breath stalled in my throat. Holmes, I could see, was similarly affected; his lips were parted on a soundless gasp, his eyes blind and staring.  
  
“John,” he moaned, his voice strangled, and the sound of my Christian name uttered in such a way sent bold shocks of arousal through my body.  
  
Those lips that I had often found so tempting—had I once called them thin? They were full and ripe with passion—proved irresistible now. My neck curved up and I captured his mouth in a kiss as my hands gripped his back with a strength born of desperate need. When he began to move in a steady rhythm inside of me that grip was the only thing that kept me tethered to reality; surely without it I would have floated away toward the Paradise that came closer with each successive thrust.  
  
Our kiss never broke, the sounds we both made trapped and muffled in each other’s mouths. My erection was trapped between us and was being gently rubbed between our stomachs as we moved. I felt Holmes’s weight shift above me and a moment later his hand had wrapped around my rigid shaft, stroking me in time with his movements. It was all too much, and with a guttural cry I emptied myself once again. Before the aftershocks had passed I felt Holmes stiffen above me, heard his cry, and a sudden liquid warmth spilled forth within me.

When I came to myself again, it was with the sense of the world filtering slowly through the haze of euphoria in which I was wrapped. I was aware of Holmes’s weight on top of me, effectively pinning me to the mattress. I felt his panting breath on my neck and the evidence of my own pleasure slowly cooling between us. I recall a vague thought that we should clean ourselves, before the toll of our exertions hit me full force and I passed into the soundest sleep I have ever experienced.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand.  This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of [A Lesson In Deduction](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/21354.html#cutid1), though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous.  The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed.  They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended.  I'm sorry, boys!  I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.

 

 

I awoke to the mid-morning sun streaming through the thin curtains. I stretched luxuriously, but my contentment gradually faded into confusion. I clearly remembered falling asleep beneath Holmes the night before—and oh, what a rush of blood was brought by the remembrance of his sweaty body on top of mine—but here I was alone in my bed, cleaned of the residue of our coupling and properly dressed in a fresh nightshirt. I might have thought the entire thing no more than another of my vivid and not infrequent dreams if not for the evidence of a certain soreness in my nether regions and the faint scent of Holmes’s hair cream on the pillow.  
  
Had he left last night, or had he simply risen before me this morning? I suspected the former, but not being possessed of Holmes’s ability to tell a man’s movements from the tiniest of clues there was no way for me to know for certain.  
  
I rose to dress and hesitated before my wardrobe, realizing that I had no idea how I ought to dress. I chided myself for the foolishness of the thought, yet still I hesitated. While it was not unheard of for me to attend breakfast in my dressing gown, to do so now seemed to smack of intimacy. Had I awoken to find Holmes still at my side I would not have hesitated a moment; his absence, however, had driven home the fact that last night’s activities were as detached from the warmth of human emotion as were any of his chemical experiments. I deplored the thought of making myself vulnerable only to have him look upon me with disdain or, infinitely worse, with pity.  
  
In the end I chose to dress fully, prepared to explain my clothing with the excuse of an errand to check in on my old practice should Holmes inquire. It was a wasted effort on my part, however, as it was clear to me from the moment I opened my door that my friend would no more notice my apparel than he would a stampede of elephants. The chemical odor that assaulted my nose told me clearly that he was engaged in one of his noxious experiments that so frequently sent me to my club to escape those fumes that never seemed to bother him.  
  
Shaking my head, I made my way to the sitting room through the morass of vapors that clouded our rooms. I had expected to find Holmes at his worktable; what I saw when I entered the room, however, surpassed any expectation I was capable of forming.  
  
Beakers and vials smoked and fizzed as he carried on what looked to be at least three different experiments at once. No sooner had he checked on one than the next would demand his attention. Occasionally, as I stood there transfixed, he would give a cry of triumph and turn feverishly to note his findings—whatever they were—in a notebook at his elbow. He was like a man possessed, and I could do nothing but stand and stare.  
  
He never noticed me, and it was only lightheadedness from the byproducts of his work that finally jarred me back to awareness. It had been my intention to ring for Mrs. Hudson and see if a bit of a late breakfast couldn’t be arranged, but the cloying air made it clear that I would be better off vacating immediately. I opened the sitting room window—still Holmes took no notice of me—in the hopes that the small vent might keep my friend from an early grave brought about by his own carelessness. Then, with a fond look but no attempt at conversation, I made my way downstairs.  
  
I stopped briefly to inform Mrs. Hudson that I would be leaving for several hours for the preservation of my health. She kindly agreed to pass the information along to Holmes should he emerge from his world of chemicals and reagents. The weather was pleasant enough for me to forego an overcoat, and so with only my hat and cane I headed out.  
  
I did indeed stop in to check on my former practice; despite having sold it I retained an interest in its success. At times I missed it, but I had never regretted my decision. Indeed, once Holmes had returned it had seemed only natural that I should turn away from what had become my life in his absence, to follow him once more. I reflected on that as I made my way towards my club. Not once, in all the intervening years, had I even considered leaving his company again. God, how I must love him.  
  
The realization brought me up short. Could it be possible? An instant’s thought assured me that yes, it was not only possible, it was absolute fact. Though I know not when, I had at some point fallen most foolishly in love with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Aghast, I stared up at the edifice before me. My desire to spend an hour or two at the club had vanished. Within those once-comforting walls I would be greeted, drawn into conversation. While I fancy that I am normally as sociable as the average Englishman, the thought of interaction was loathsome to me at that moment. I needed peace; I needed to think.  
  
I began to walk, my route aimless. One is seldom as unapproachable as when walking alone with a look of great determination, and I found that in the crowded London streets I obtained a kind of solitude. Alone, for all intents and purposes, with my thoughts, my mind began to reel.  
  
I had known that I cared for Holmes. Certainly I would have been foolish to try to deny my fondness for the man, considering how readily I dropped everything to accompany him on his cases on a moment’s notice. I had unquestionably worried for his safety and his health. I had desired him with near painful intensity. But when had I allowed it to turn to love?  
  
No answer awaited me save one: that it mattered little when I had fallen when the consequences were so grave. I had already broken the law with little thought to my own vulnerability should I be discovered. To love a man such as Holmes, however, frightened me in a way that the Offences Against the Person Act could never manage.  
  
Holmes had my heart in his hand, and it was very likely—indeed, nearly inevitable—that he would crush it. Perhaps not intentionally, for though I have written much of his disdain for the softer passions I still can not believe him capable of such insensate cruelty. No, the killing blow would land as it does for a bug squashed on the sidewalk: not from a conscious wish to harm, but merely as the result of inattention. Holmes could easily destroy me without realizing that his actions caused me pain, indeed without fully comprehending his own power over me.  
  
One thing was clear to me: what had occurred last night must never happen again. That was the only way, I realized, that I might regain some measure of control over myself. To allow our physical intimacy to continue would destroy me, no matter how glorious it might be in the short-term.  
  
So decided, I made my way back to Baker Street. I was relieved, upon my entry, to hear from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes had ceased his experiments some hours ago after a blast that had been both heard and felt in her rooms below. He had left shortly thereafter in his usual fashion, without bothering to leave word as to where he had gone or when he might be back. I was too used to Holmes’s erratic behavior to be much surprised by this, and as Mrs. Hudson had seen to it that our rooms had been aired out as soon as he left, I settled down with a novel and passed the rest of the afternoon in quiet contemplation.  
  
It was past supper when Holmes finally returned, irritation clear on his face and from the way he flung the door open and closed.  
  
“Bumbling idiots,” he muttered, striding into the room and immediately over to his experiments. “Why, not a one of them would spare the time to take a look at my findings. I hand them a foolproof method for detecting counterfeits, and I receive no more attention than a postman handing over the daily correspondence! Tell me, Watson, why do I put up with those bunglers at Scotland Yard?”  
  
“Because they bring you cases,” I said without looking up from my paper.  
  
“Ah, yes,” he said wistfully. “I suppose they are good for that, if nothing else. Nevertheless, I shall not listen the next time Lestrade complains of the difficulty in discerning fakes. I have no sympathy for his trials when he rejects such a useful tool.  
  
“I tell you it was a breakthrough!” I set aside my paper now, vastly entertained by Holmes’s animated speech. “I have been laboring over this formula for months. My hemoglobin experiment was difficult enough, but this was a thousand times worse. Impossible, some would say. But I have done it, Watson! I confess, I had feared that indulging in carnal activities would blunt my reasoning capabilities; instead, it seems to have sharpened them! And I owe it all to you, dear boy.”  
  
His expression changed then, as though he were truly seeing me for the first time since he had walked through the door. His posture tensed slightly, changing him in an instant from an excitable scientist to a hunter stalking his prey. I felt my hands grow damp.  
  
“Yes,” he mused, drawing closer to me, “I owe you, indeed, for all that you have done for me.” His eyes swept over me in lingering appraisal. “I do hope you’ll let me thank you properly.”  
  
I stood, the thought of flight half-formed in my mind as he approached. I could not allow this to happen again. I had to leave, to absent myself until this fit of his had passed. But my mouth was dry and my heart was racing as I stood rooted to the spot, frozen like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake by his gray eyes blazing into mine.  
  
“Holmes,” I croaked out, but got no farther in my protests before I was silenced by his mouth, searing hot, over mine.  
  
Any thought of stopping his kiss, or the wonderful hands that were already working at my clothes, flew immediately from my head. As always I had no defense against his will, and after my recent revelation I knew that I had no hope of halting his advances. I loved him, and I wanted him with a desperation that bordered on savagery. This behavior could not continue indefinitely; I would have to put an end to it eventually. But now my love, my Holmes, was in my arms, and I needed him so desperately I could barely breathe. When he began to guide us towards my bedroom I gave no resistance. Surely the next day would be a good enough time to end things.  
  
In reality, it was more than three weeks before I was able to work up the will to do so. It was always to the same—during the day we were partners as always, and Holmes took as vacillating an interest in me as he always had. He worked on one or two minor cases, finding a missing shipment of Italian marble and uncovering the plot to frame the culprit’s business partner for the crime. Life continued as normal. At night, however, it was as though a switch had been flipped. He looked at me with new eyes, and became in my arms as ardent a lover as ever walked the earth.  
  
In our lovemaking he was as inquisitive and demanding, if not as coldly analytical, as he was in any other matter. He took delight in discovering new ways for us to please each other, and I came to know how he felt inside as thoroughly as he knew me. When my imagination—so often derided by him when it came to my writing—supplied a new intimacy for us to try, he responded with wholehearted enthusiasm.  
  
One might have expected a man such as Sherlock Holmes to be reticent in such intimate acts; in reality, however, he gave of himself so freely that it touched me to the soul. It was, I write with no small amount of irony, that generosity which finally pushed me to call an end to our arrangement. As much as he was willing to give me of his body, he still held his emotions away from me. Physically satisfying though our relationship was, I felt an emptiness in my heart that only grew with each successive coupling.  
  
It took all my strength of will one night to broach the subject. As usual, Holmes brushed aside my requests that we talk with an impatient gesture. He was immersed in tracking down a certain tidbit of information in his dreadfully unorganized files, and it required his full attention; he implored me to wait. I could not, however, for I knew that the end of his efforts would bring a resurgence of his ardor, and I was no more equipped to stand against it tonight than I had been on any of the nights past. More drastic measures, I decided, were needed.  
  
“I think it would be best if I looked for other lodgings, Holmes.”  
  
That got his attention at last, and his head whipped up from the study that had so engaged him.  
  
“Why, Watson, whatever for?” The question was an automatic one, I believe, rather than the result of conscious thought, as I saw comprehension dawn on his face immediately. “Ah. I see.” He exchanged his files for his pipe, and for several moments he was occupied in filling it with his favorite shag.  
  
“It’s only that . . . I don’t think that I can keep this up any longer.”  
  
“No need to explain, Watson,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve already trespassed upon your kind nature quite long enough in regards to this experiment of mine. You may rest assured that I will not press you to indulge me again. There is no need for you to seek out new lodgings—I assure you, you are quite safe here.”  
  
I sighed. It was so like him, to assume that he had handily solved the problem and that the subject was now closed.  
  
“It’s not just that, Holmes. Now that you’ve discovered . . . well . . .” I was appalled to find that I was blushing, something I had not done since I was a boy. “As I was saying, now that you’ve discovered this, ah, new side of yourself, it’s only natural that you should wish to continue such explorations.”  
  
“I have already assured you that I will make no advances against your person, Watson,” he said testily. “Do you have reason to doubt my word?”  
  
“Never, Holmes,” I hastened to reassure him. “But I do not relish the thought of being in the way when you bring others back here. It would be an uncomfortable situation for us both.”  
  
“I fail to see why I would be of a mind to bring anyone here.” He still did not seem to understand, and I fought my own frustration, giving instead a disbelieving laugh.  
  
“I never thought to see the day when Sherlock Holmes was stymied by the obvious. It just makes good sense for you to bring your partners here. If you were to use another flat or a hotel you might be followed and discovered. The scandal would be enormous, to say nothing of the legal action that might be taken against you. Here, however, you are already known for having any number of visitors, and at all hours, at that.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
That was all he said for the rest of the evening; several minutes later I observed him taking his pipe and Persian slipper into his room for what I can only presume was another of his bouts of intense thought. I assumed that he had seen the wisdom of what I had said and was simply settling down, as was his habit, to ruminate upon it.  
  
My theory seemed to be supported when I rose the next morning to find him gone, a note trapped beneath the butter dish declaring that he had gone out for a walk and not to expect him back until much later. I was rather surprised, as he was not accustomed to keeping me apprised of his whereabouts unless we were actively on a case, and even then he was more apt than not to simply disappear and reappear of his own volition. I accepted this, however, as one of Holmes’s little vagaries and did not think on it overmuch.  
  
For my own part, I spent the day perusing the advertisements for a suitable set of rooms. It gave me a pang, I admit, to leave behind the home to which I had so gladly returned. The thought of having to see—perhaps even converse with—Holmes’s future partners gave me a sharper pang, however, and kept my resolve strong.  
  
I was just sitting down to the excellent meal afforded by Mrs. Hudson when Holmes came strolling through the door. Seeing my repast he immediately rang for his own meal and had disappeared behind his paper by the time it arrived.  
  
I was curious to know where he had been, but long experience had taught me that I would get nothing from him until he was ready to speak. We were silent throughout supper, and in the interim my curiosity grew exponentially. Did his absence have something to do with our discussion last night? I had nearly reached the point where I had to ask—patience be damned—when he put down the paper at last and smirked across the table at me.  
  
“I commend you, Watson. Many a lesser man would have crumbled under the pressure of such fierce curiosity.” He laughed outright at what was surely my astonished and frustrated expression. “Oh, Watson, no doubt you thought your interest quite well hidden, and I will allow that it may have been from one who did not know you so well. But you have habit of stitching up phantom wounds—only the barest twitch of the fingers, it took me a devilishly long time to divine what you were doing—when you are trying to restrain your instincts to demand answers.”  
  
My customary irritation at being so blatantly transparent flared at his words, but I made an effort to rein it in. I was determined to act as if my interest were idle at best, reluctant to add any fuel to the fire of Holmes’s mockery.  
  
“Very well,” I said good-naturedly, “since you seem disposed to tell me, I shall ask you what you were doing today.”  
  
“There it is at last,” Holmes said, his eyes sparkling. “Well, since you seem disposed to listen, I shall tell you. I was performing an experiment.”  
  
My brow wrinkled in a frown. “An experiment?”  
  
“Indeed.” He picked up his pipe and began to fill it. “And I can now safely conclude that there is absolutely no need for you to move from our rooms, my dear Watson.”  
  
“What?” I was confounded. “But . . . good Lord, Holmes, don’t tell me you’re honestly thinking of using a hotel?”  
  
“Nothing of the kind,” he assured me calmly. He lit his pipe and took a moment or two enjoying the first puffs of smoke. “I will not be needing a hotel, any more than I will be needing use of these rooms.”  
  
“I’m afraid I do not understand.”  
  
“That much is quite clear,” he said, his eyes sparkling in dry amusement. “To put it plainly, I ventured around the city today in search of a new lover. Oh, I know I was unlikely to actually find a partner in such a manner,” he said in response to my astonished gasp, “but I had determined that I should at least get an idea of the sort of man I’m attracted to, since I seem to be built for such, shall we say, aberrant desires.”  
  
He paused again to puff on his pipe and I could not help but stare at him, sitting there as calmly as though he were discussing the evening’s weather rather than an appetite that could get him landed in gaol.  
  
“However, the longer I walked and the longer I searched, the clearer it became that I would not find what I was looking for. Not a single man or woman that I saw—for I expanded my search after several hours with the thought that perhaps that desire had likewise simply lain dormant—not a single one managed to stir my interest in the slightest.” He leaned back in his chair, looking as pleased with himself as he did when he had solved a particularly thorny case. “My desire seems to have been an abnormality rather than an awakening; while I might at some point investigate a bit further into what caused it, the fact remains that it has died out as suddenly as it arose.”  
  
“I see,” I managed weakly. A moment later I felt the ghost of a smile touch my lips. “And now, I suppose, you ‘shall do your best to forget it’?”  
  
“Perhaps,” he mused. “Though the information could one day prove useful; the point of the experiment was, after all, to gain a further understanding of that driving force. Perhaps instead I shall simply set the experience on a shelf to gather dust until such time as I may need it again. Then again . . . no, no doubt you are right. It would be a far more efficient use of space to simply forget altogether.” He looked back up at me, and though he smiled slightly his eyes were serious. “Please, Watson, do not think any more of moving out. I fear the place should not be the same without my Boswell in residence again.”  
  
I hesitated. My instincts were clambering at me to run, to flee before the toll of Holmes’s constant presence after what we had shared began to warp me. The thought of leaving was still painful, however, and I had run out of excuses to do so. If suffering was inevitable, better that I suffer near the one I loved.  
  
“Very well, Holmes,” I answered at last. “I shall stay.”  
  
The relief on his face was so subtle that only someone intimately aquatinted with him would have noticed it at all; but I was very intimately acquainted with him indeed. And as he settled into an account of his latest case the tension between us eased somewhat, leaving only a familiar camaraderie in its place. Perhaps, I began to hope, things could indeed return to the way they were before.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things that Holmes quite simply does not understand.  This particular gap in his knowledge must be rectified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel/continuation/what have you of [A Lesson In Deduction](http://ladyblahblah.livejournal.com/21354.html#cutid1), though it could probably work decently well as a stand-alone.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  The premise for this story is absolutely ridiculous.  The Holmes in my head is giving me the most phenomenally dirty look right now, and even Watson looks disappointed.  They've done their best with a bad script, though, and they're to be commended.  I'm sorry, boys!  I'll let you get to the more realistic world of airguns and rope-climbing snakes right after this, I promise.

 

 

Life for us went on as usual over the next several weeks. After only a handful of days we became embroiled in a most interesting case that occupied most of our time, and the details of which have recorded elsewhere in these pages. Between tracking down the stingy clues to the crime and chasing the criminal himself from London to countryside and back again, Holmes and I had little opportunity to reflect upon personal matters.  
  
But if I can not be honest with myself, with whom can I be? In truth, despite the hectic events I could not stop thinking about what had passed between us. It seemed that each time I began to drift off to sleep I could feel the fire of Holmes’s kisses against my skin and I would jerk awake, gasping for breath and painfully hard.  
  
I wanted him violently still; however, as I thought it over I also grew increasingly angry. It did not seem fair that I was trapped in such paroxysms of need while he had apparently shaken off those baser urges that had briefly possessed him. I wanted to rail against him, to demand an explanation of how such heat could so abruptly cool. I was once again merely Watson, his faithful Boswell and I dare say even his good friend; that consuming passion that I still craved, however, had gone out, and his ease with me was infuriating.  
  
Despite my feelings, I said nothing. This was due, in part, to a knowledge that Holmes’s coldness was not truly his own fault. As best I could tell he had simply been born as he was—detached from the outside world—and our brief interlude truly had been an anomaly rather than any indication of a permanent change.  
  
The greater part of my reticence, however, came from my fear that should I give rein to one set of my passions, the other would swiftly break free as well. Screaming at Holmes seemed like a delightful idea, but I could not trust my temper not to change to ardor. If I berated him I would likely end up assaulting him as well, and every fiber of my being was repulsed by the idea of forcing my attentions where they had been so coolly rejected.  
  
So I held my tongue, and gradually my anger gave way to a grudging acceptance. I had, after all, lived with my desire for my friend under wraps for years already; surely I could do so again. A small part of my mind whispered that that had been before I had tasted him, before I knew the feeling of him inside and out, but I firmly ignored such pessimistic thoughts and did my best to settle back into life as usual at Baker Street.  
  
We had been calmly settled back at home for two days after our little adventure when I began to grow concerned. Something seemed to be eating at Holmes—he appeared to have difficulty concentrating on even the simplest of tasks, and his temper grew shorter all the time. He snarled at me no fewer than three times a day. This sort of behavior was not unusual when he remained bothered by some detail of a case, but it was never pleasant to deal with. I tried several times to question him about what was bothering him so, but each time he brushed me off with transparently false assurances of his wellbeing. I had nearly given up my attempts when one night Holmes finally spoke from his position by the mantel.  
  
“Watson, I have been giving it a great deal of consideration lately,” he said, “and I think that perhaps it would be best if you sought other lodgings after all.”  
  
I sat back in my chair, stunned. This had not been what I was expecting at all. “You . . . have found someone, then, who sparks your interest?”  
  
He laughed bitterly. “You might say that.” He spared me a look. “I have failed, Watson. I could not forget.”  
  
My stomach churned at both the thought of Holmes in another’s arms and the thought of leaving his side. I was terrified that I might actually lose my composure and either vomit or burst into tears, as either seemed apt to happen at any moment. I took a deep breath to steady myself, prepared to tell him that I understood, that I would leave at once.  
  
“Perhaps it would not be so terribly awkward.” Holmes turned to me, no more stunned at my words than I was myself. “What I mean to say is . . . is . . . dash it all, man, you can not simply boot me out like this!”  
  
“I’m afraid I must insist,” he said, his voice strained. “One of us must leave the premises, and since you offered before—”  
  
“Well, my offer has been rescinded! But I hardly see why either of us has to leave; we are, after all, both adults, capable of dealing with—”  
  
“Damn it, Watson!” he roared. “I can not stay any longer with you in this house! Is that clear enough?”  
  
My heart sank to the depths of my stomach. I understood, or thought I did. Still, I needed to hear the words from Holmes’s own mouth if I were to ever gain any peace. “Are you . . . ashamed of what we have done?” I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “Is that why you can no longer stand the sight of me?”  
  
Holmes made a strangled sound of frustration. “By God, how you have managed to be in my company for so long and have failed to learn to make even the simplest of deductions is beyond me. Can you not see, man? Are you truly so blind? Must you be bashed about the head with the evidence before you are capable of putting two and two together? So be it.”  
  
With that ominous statement Holmes stormed across the small space between us, his face a mask of anger and impatience. I half-rose from my chair with the vague thought of defending myself from what seemed to be an impending physical attack. Before I could act, however, he had seized the knot of my necktie in his fist and, wresting me from my seat by that stranglehold, brought his mouth crashing down on mine.  
  
An attack was certainly an apt description for that fierce kiss, with no emotions behind it save anger, lust, and a frenzy that left me breathless. I was so taken aback by the suddenness and violence of it that I could not respond, could only stand there as he assailed my mouth. My body was just beginning to react to the intimate probing of Holmes’s tongue when, as suddenly as he began, he broke away, pushing me forcibly back.  
  
“Do you see now?” he asked hoarsely, and behind the fury still burning in his eyes and the desire that had joined it, I could see a hint of what was unmistakably fear. “I promised you that if you stayed here you would be safe from my advances. I truly thought that I could keep my word; my dear Watson,” he said, his eyes growing sincere, “please believe that I truly meant it when I made that vow. I would not betray your trust for the world.”  
  
“I believe you,” I said shakily.  
  
“I tried to forget,” he continued, beginning now to pace. “I assumed that it would be easy enough. You know that my curiosity is strong, but once it has been satisfied there is seldom any chance of keeping my interest. I had explored the pleasures of the flesh—and if we did not investigate all of them I fancy that we at least managed most—and now I could put such distractions behind me.”  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it and telling me of the depth of his distress when he made no move to fix it; indeed, he seemed unaware of his own increasingly rumpled state. I, however, was not, and I felt a stirring of interest in my groin at the sight of him in a state I had seldom seen outside of the bedroom.  
  
“Imagine my surprise,” he said, and I pulled my attention from his person to his fevered confession, “to discover after several days that my desires seemed to be increasing rather than decreasing. It did not seem so difficult when I was on a case and had other things on which to focus my mind. But the times in between . . . You will no doubt be pleased to know,” he said with a glare, “that I could find no comfort even in my seven percent solution, as every attempt to inject myself was stymied when the idea of the needle penetrating my skin brought other . . . vivid . . . memories to mind.”  
  
My heart did indeed lift at this news of Holmes’s sobriety, even as my body suffused with heat at the image that his words recalled in me. “Holmes—”  
  
“When I could no longer ignore it,” he continued as though he had not heard me, “I began to search for other solutions. I even grew so desperate as to visit one of our fair city’s more discreet brothels. Can you imagine it, Watson?” he demanded, spinning to face me, his face full of self-loathing. “Me, in a place like that, trying to pick out a partner from the men and boys arrayed like baubles in a store window?”  
  
I could, and the image was so incongruous with the Holmes I knew that it was all I could do not to laugh aloud. Instead I merely shook my head and allowed his rant to begin again.  
  
“None of them—not one—held the slightest attraction for me. I thought, at the time, that perhaps this insanity had finally truly fled my mind. When I returned home, however, and saw you sitting in your chair, reading one of your horrid sea novels, I realized quite abruptly that all of my previous assumptions had been incorrect. I had not divested myself of sensual desires, but had instead focused them all upon you.  
  
“It has been torture, Watson,” he said, ceasing his pacing at last and coming to stand before me, his eyes wild. “I feel as if I am going mad. To have only one creature on this earth that I desire in such a way; to have him living under the same roof and yet as far out of my reach as if he were across the world . . .” he broke off with a shudder.  
  
My head and heart were reeling. The man I loved and wanted more than I wanted my next breath had just told me, in his customary convoluted way, that he wanted me in return. He had been driven to distraction—Sherlock Holmes, distracted by his desire! I could not seem to catch my breath, and after a tense silence Holmes turned his face away.  
  
“You are no doubt put off, if I may use so mild a term, by this revelation. Yet I find that I must continue in order to impress upon you the absolute necessity of terminating our current living arrangements. My need—for it has grown to such a point that I feel it as I feel hunger or thirst—has threatened to overtake me.” I saw, in profile, his throat bob as he swallowed. “I have been fighting the very strong urge for the past several nights to enter your room and cover your sleeping body with mine, despite the fact that you have told me in no uncertain terms that such advances would not be welcome.” His lips curled into a sneer that was directed at none but himself. “Sufficiently roused, the human body will succumb to temptation despite what the mind or heart decrees. I know your body well enough, Watson, to give you great enough pleasure that you might throw aside your objections for one night at least. To gain a response from you that would let me pretend it was seduction rather than . . .”  
  
He could not get the word out and turned farther away from me, until I could no longer see his face. For my part, my mind was arrested by the thought of Holmes awakening me with his kisses and his touch, his lean body pinning mine to the mattress, and it was all that I could do not to groan aloud. The idea had the most intriguing possibilities. When I came back to myself I felt almost guilty for my thoughts, however, as I could see that Holmes was genuinely distressed.  
  
“I could do such a thing,” he whispered hoarsely, “engage in such vile behavior again and again. With the proper pleasurable stimuli I could see to it that you would no longer try to stop me, and I would not be able to stop myself.” He gave a bitter laugh, palpably full of his own self-loathing. I hope never to hear such a sound again. “The irony, Watson, is not lost on me. I wished to experience desire so that I might better understand and thwart the criminal mind, and instead now find that I am on the verge of becoming the most base and repugnant kind of criminal myself. So now, Watson, that you know how very much danger you are in so long as you stay here, I trust that you will reconsider your earlier decision.”  
  
I took a deep, long breath, gathering my courage. It was never easy for me to defy Holmes, and the number of times that I had done so I could count on one hand. I only ever managed it when the need was great and I knew, unequivocally, that I was acting for the best. Never had I been as sanguine about such defiance as I was at that moment.  
  
“No, Holmes,” I said gently. “I am afraid that I can not. I shall remain with you in Baker Street.”  
  
He whirled on me then, rage and terror vying for control of his face. “Must I spell things out for you? If you stay here, sooner or later I shall lose control of myself. I will take you despite your wishes; I will commit that unspeakable act again and again and I shall perpetrate it against my best and dearest friend! Do not, in the name of decency and our long friendship, allow me to become such a monster, John.”  
  
My heart flipped. He never called me John except in moments of greatest passion, when we were entwined naked and desperate around each other. To hear it fall now from his lips set my soul to trembling and nearly weakened my resolve, before I recalled that his fears were fundamentally unfounded. Indeed, when I regained my composure I could not resist teasing him a little, as I was unlikely to get another such excellent opportunity again.  
  
“I could lock my door,” I offered placidly.  
  
“Oh, very good,” he said derisively, waving a hand in the air as though to bat my words away like a troublesome fly. “That would do very nicely until I took the necessary ten seconds to pick the lock.”  
  
“Perhaps, then, I could get a bar installed. Even you can not get soundlessly past a solid plank of lumber holding the door closed.” Lord, but he was delightful to tease! I was doing my best to keep my face impassive, a task that grew more and more difficult as Holmes seemed completely blind to my inward amusement. Oh, to see him distracted so! It was better than any entertainment I could think of, save one, and we would be enjoying that shortly, as well.  
  
“Would you truly wish to live like that?” he asked, his voice as close to pleading as I had ever heard it. “With your door locked and barred each night against the beast that waits without? I can not bear the thought of you locking yourself away; better for both of us if you leave. Must I beg you, John?” he choked out. “For if that is the only way to reach you, I swear I will beg and my pride be damned!”  
  
I softened then, and who in the face of such a concession from such a man as Sherlock Holmes would do any less? I smiled gently and reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You need not beg, my friend.” He relaxed for all of a moment before I continued. “But I shall not leave.” He made to pull back, horror and confusion written clearly on his face, but I held him firm. “Holmes, it seems that I am not the only one to have been blind. I ended our physical relationship, that is true, but I did not do so out of anything resembling disgust or shame, as you seem to think. In truth, I cared too much for you. I could not accept being merely a warm body for your experiments with desire. But now I know that I am not, that I am more than simply convenient. If you want me, Holmes, truly want me and no one else, then you need not fear your own longing. I am more than willing to be your lover once again if you truly care for me.”  
  
He turned away again, presenting me with his back. “You presume too much, Watson,” he said in his customary acerbic tone, but I could hear the slight quaver that lay beneath. I would not let him push me away; I would not allow either of us to do so ever again.  
  
“I like it better when you call me ‘John’,” I said, wrapping my hands once more around his thin shoulders. I stepped close behind him and felt him lean back into my touch ever so slightly. “Sherlock,” I whispered. My moustache grazed his ear, and I delighted in his shiver of response. “Come to bed.”  
  
He shuddered once and turned in my arms. There was a brief, desperate struggle over his face between sadness and desire; he took an unsteady breath and desire won the field. “Let us both be damned, then,” he rasped before pressing his mouth to mine.  
  
My own need raged fiercely within me, but I took pains to keep the kiss gentle. It was unlike any embrace we had ever shared, with none of the frantic intensity that characterized our previous encounters. Indeed, despite my not inconsiderable desire I felt as though I might happily stand there all night with Holmes trembling delicately in my arms. I wanted to convey the depth of my feelings to him, the completeness of my trust. As his muscles loosened I felt my heart swell, reveling in the delightful sensation of Holmes’s surrender.  
  
The tenderness of our kiss was destined not to last, however. Soon our base desires rose once again to the fore, pieces of clothing falling to the wayside in our haste. He began to guide us towards my room but I resisted, propelling him by the shirtfront into his bedroom instead. Our kiss broke and I could see surprise clear on his face; he was as keenly aware as I was of the fact that our trysts had always taken place in my room. I simply turned the lock behind us and tumbled him onto the bed.  
  
I could not have articulated the urge that had overtaken me to invade his private sanctum. It seemed to me to be a tentative foray into new territory, an attempt to cement this change in our relationship as something beyond the merely physical. When Holmes made no protest my spirits lightened to the point of merriness, and a sudden thought seized control of my brain.  
  
“Holmes,” I murmured against his throat, and received only an inarticulate moan and a tightened embrace as response. Chuckling, I lifted my head to smooth kisses over his brow. “Sherlock?”  
  
“Watson?”  
  
I nipped sharply at his earlobe and he moaned again. “John,” I corrected, breathing the word into his ear.  
  
“John,” he said with a shiver. His hands had been eagerly stripping me of my garments but I grasped his wrists now to still them. He looked up at me, the fog in his eyes lifting to reveal confusion.  
  
“What you said before,” I said, lifting one of his hands to nibble at his fingers. His eyes glazed slightly again and he blinked fiercely in an attempt to remain in control. “Did you mean it?”  
  
“What?” Try as he might he could not follow my thinking. I found myself highly gratified at that fact, given his unsettling habit at other times to break in upon my thoughts as though I had been voicing them aloud. “What did I say?”  
  
I traced the veins of one slender wrist with the tip of my tongue. “That you would beg me if you must.”  
  
His eyes widened, then settled into that look of amused tolerance with which he so often favors me. “In order to spare us both the discomfort of what I believed to be my unwelcome advances, yes John, I would indeed have begged you.” He arched his body slightly, bringing our erections into fleeting contact and wringing a groan from me. He chuckled. “It seems, however, that such indignity is not necessary after all.”  
  
“Perhaps not,” I said breathlessly before I swiftly pinned his wrists beside his head. “But I find that I have an urge to hear you beg in any case.”  
  
Holmes’s eyes widened again, astonishment written plainly on his features; gazing into his eyes, however, I could detect a spark of interest. “And what,” he asked, shifting sinuously beneath me, “do you propose to do to move me to such great lengths? I have a substantial strength of will, as you know; without suitable enticement it is likely that my pleading will continue to exist only in your fevered imagination.”  
  
“I think I have the necessary skill to wring desperation from your lips.” I lowered my mouth to the strip of skin exposed by his open shirt. “After all, your knowledge of my body is not one-sided, my friend.”  
  
And so it was that I began my assault in my somewhat lofty goal of reducing one of the world’s most brilliant minds to rubble. Stripping him slowly of his remaining garments I rained kisses and seductive touches over each newly exposed inch of flesh, concentrating on the places I knew pleased him best until a fine sheen of sweat had broken out over his skin. When my hands left his wrists I was encouraged by the fact that he kept them in place, pleased to see that he was amenable to this little game.  
  
His entire body was trembling by the time I took him in my mouth, and his hips jerked slightly as the wet heat engulfed him. I pressed his arching body back to the bed with my hands firmly on his hips, and began to use all of the little tricks I had developed during our intimacy that had proved to drive him beyond the limits of control. I could hear his breathing grow ragged; I focused all of my attention on his body’s reaction, willfully ignoring my own painfully aroused state. Timing here was everything.  
  
Due to my diligence I could feel the subtle approach of his orgasm in the ticks and tightening of his body. At the very last moment, my mouth still closed around him, I gripped the base of his shaft with brutal strength, holding back the climax that had so nearly occurred.  
  
I released him and lifted my head to find him staring at me with a dazed, baffled expression. With soothing nonsense sounds and gentle strokes to his stomach and thighs I brought him down from that dizzying height and back to a manageable state. As soon as I judged him to be once again in control of himself, I descended upon him again.  
  
He reached that final point more quickly this time, and once again I halted his fulfillment, calming him with touch and word only to torment him once more. Again and again we repeated the cycle until Holmes was nearly wild, writhing and bucking with unfulfilled desire.  
  
“John,” he cried, for all the world like a man under torture, as yet again I denied him release.  
  
“Shh, my love,” I whispered, stroking him comfortingly as I gamely swallowed a chuckle. “There is no need to rush; we have all night. But if you crave fulfillment so badly, you know that it is only one small word away.”  
  
I lowered my mouth so that my tongue could trace the vein that ran along the underside of his shaft, and his resolve finally broke.  
  
“Please, John,” he moaned. “Please, I beg you, do not make me wait any longer!”  
  
I had already taken him fully in my mouth when, to my surprise, he did not cease his pleas. Instead he continued them in a torrent of French, German and a handful of other languages, not all of which I recognized. After a time he could very well have been cursing me to high heaven; I little cared, however, after such a gratifying display. His hands flew down to tangle in my hair and hold me in place, but he need not have worried; the sound of Holmes so moved had me aching to finish this, thirsting for the taste of him washing thickly over my tongue.  
  
I did not have long to wait; with my mouth wrapped around him, no sooner had my hand ventured to brush against his sac than he gave a breathless cry and held my head against him as, with a swift jerk of his hips, he spilled his seed down my eager throat.  
  
I gazed down at him, trembling and sated, and knew that I could wait no longer. I discarded the rest of my clothing and snatched the jar of his pomade from the dresser. Coating myself liberally with the lime-scented cream, I hitched up Holmes’s delightfully limp legs and drove deep into him with one swift move. In my state of heightened excitement I lasted only a few brief thrusts before I, too, felt my climax raging through my body.  
  
I collapsed atop Holmes and lay there for a moment, savoring the feeling of his warm, limp body beneath mine before I rolled aside. Our legs remained intertwined and I enjoyed a feeling of contentment deeper than any I had ever known.  
  
“Your tactics, Watson,” Holmes said eventually, his words heavy, with just the slightest hint of a slur, “were abominably unfair. If you were going to insist on reducing me to such a pitiable state, the very least you could do would be to allow me the chance to reciprocate.”  
  
I chuckled weakly. “Perhaps you can do so a bit later.”  
  
“Indeed. I shall look forward to it.”  
  
“As shall I,” I murmured as I drifted into sleep. “Wholeheartedly.”  
  
When I awoke it was with a keen disappointment to find myself once more alone in bed. I confess that I had hoped that the use of Holmes’s quarters would have discouraged him from fleeing, though I recognized that to be wishful thinking more than anything else. With a resigned sigh I rose and slipped on one of Holmes’s dressing gowns that I rummaged from his closet. It would seem that we still had some matters to discuss.  
  
I found him in the sitting room, staring in contemplative silence at the dying fire. In another man such negligence would have indicated anticipation of soon leaving the spot, as the nights were still touched with a lingering cold. Holmes, however, was just as likely to have neglected the fire due to genuine unconcern for his own physical state. I shook my head, thinking wryly that it was surely a sign of madness for me to find such behavior endearing. I have always been most amenable after truly excellent sex, however, and so I supposed allowances must be made.  
  
“Holmes,” I said softly, padding across the room to stand by his chair. He did not look up, but his very lack of reaction assured me that he had been aware of my presence since I entered the room.  
  
“I fear that I have truly damned us both,” he said quietly. Concerned, I knelt before him, but he continued to avert his face.  
  
“Why would you say such a thing?” I asked, taking his hands in mine. He did not resist, but neither did he return my grip.  
  
“Is it not clear?” he asked morosely. “I have placed physical concerns above the friendship that I esteem so highly. In time I fear you shall come to hate me for what I have done.”  
  
“Hate you?” I reached up and turned his face toward me, looking earnestly into his eyes. “I could never hate you, Holmes.”  
  
He merely shook his head. “It would be one thing if matters could remain solely in the realm of the physical, but . . .”  
  
A chill overtook me as I remembered what I had let slip in the heat of passion.  
  
“I see.” I released him, resting my hands on my knees. He averted his face once more and I closed my eyes at my own folly. “I can not apologize for the sentiment, Holmes, but I am sorry for having said anything. It was never my wish to press unwanted feelings on you.”  
  
He laughed softly, sadly, and I opened my eyes again to see him gazing at me. “No, my friend, that is not it at all. The truth is, I am less troubled by your words than by my reaction to them. You called me your love, and I . . .” His hands fluttered in a helpless, nervous gesture. “I was happy.”  
  
I merely blinked up at him, more confused than ever.  
  
“You are a remarkable man, John Watson, and your love is a greater gift than I could ever hope to deserve. What call have I to be happy that you should waste that love on such a man as me?” he asked with a sad smile. “You deserve more; you deserve one who will return your love with equal force. I am moody and impatient and I realize that I neglect you more often than not. If I had an ounce of the conscience you have been blessed with I would release you to seek better things, but I find that I can not. My selfishness forbids me to give you up. I do . . . care for you, John,” he said awkwardly, “but I am not certain that I am capable of love.”  
  
I pondered his words, staring as he had at the fire and the fading light it cast. Then I took his hands again in mine and pressed a kiss to both palms in turn.  
  
“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” I said dryly, “but until a month ago you did not think yourself capable of desire, either. I trust we have put the last of those doubts to rest. Perhaps you have simply never given yourself the chance to love, as you never gave yourself the chance to want.” I kissed the back of his hand, pleased with his bemused expression. “At the very least, you ought to give me the chance to prove you wrong. I so seldom get to do so.”  
  
He stared down at me. “You are quite a singular man, Watson,” he murmured. “I begin to think that I never shall get your depths.”  
  
I simply smiled and rose to my feet, holding out my hand for him. “Come back to bed, Holmes,” I urged.  
  
He hesitated a moment, then put his hand in mine, rising from his chair. We walked back to the bedroom and, for the first time in our long association, I led the way.

 

 


End file.
